All I Want
by fetch-thranduilion
Summary: At long very long last, the sequel to The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group! Maedhros, Raistlin, Ken and Feanor search for Maglor with Roger, Lucemon, and Anakin in hot pursuit. Chaos, sarcasm, and so forth ensue.
1. Maedhros Gains A Quest

I'm baaaaack! (wow; how many times have people used that when beginning a sequel? Probably far too many. Oh well. Life goes on.) And I have a Xanga now! I feel special! It's all about my fanfictions! I'm way too hyper about this…If you want to see it, visit my bio and click the "homepage" link.

Unlike its predecessor, this story (the name of which changed after I found a song that corresponded well with it) has a plot. We shall see if that is to its advantage or a detriment.

Replies to reviews of REMSG chapter 5 are at the end of this.

Since this is a new story, I suppose I have to do the full list of disclaimers: Toei Animation owns all characters/places from Digimon (Ken, Lucemon, Wormmon, etc.); Tolkien's estate owns the Halls of Mandos and its inhabitants (Maedhros, Feanor, Maglor, and assorted others); Wizards of the Coast owns Dragonlance and thus all denizens of Krynn (Raistlin, Lunitari, Takhisis, you get the picture); Lucasfilm Ltd. owns Anakin Skywalker aka Darth Vader; and Tamora Pierce owns Roger of Conte. My father owns the computer I'm typing this on. I own the notebook I wrote this in originally. Yay, finally something that's mine!

Here we go! (insert digiport music from the dub)

All I Want, Chapter One: Maedhros Gains Not Only A Quest, But Also A New Optimistic Outlook On Life (Which Is No Doubt Doomed To Failure)

_"Day after day/Your home life's a wreck/The powers that be just breathe down your neck…" _The Offspring, "All I Want"

Curufinwe Feanor had been disappointed in his eldest son several times before in his afterlife. First had come the news that Maedhros had forsaken his birthright as High King and handed the rulership of the Noldor to Feanor's half-brother, for whom Feanor had never cared a great deal. Most recently had been when the details of Maedhros's death had finally been laid bare to Feanor's incredulous mind: his son had fulfilled the solemn Oath he had sworn on behalf of his beloved father, only to commit suicide soon after. Doubly enraging was the fact that Feanor, normally so keen to the workings and desires of the hearts of his peers, could not fathom why in all of Arda Maedhros would do such a thing. Fulfillment of a goal long sweated, bled, and cried for should only lead to bliss and rejoicing, not wails of torment and futility.

To be sure, Maedhros was a thoroughly infuriating individual to his father; neither understood the other, and while there was great love between the two of them there also were differences that clashed like swords on a battlefield when brought to the fore, a graveness in Maedhros's manner and a carelessness in Feanor's that could never seemingly be reconciled. And now Maedhros, dwelling in the Halls of Mandos with all his brothers save one, was behaving in a manner so troublesome to Feanor that the latter could not bear the sight of the former for very long before he felt like screaming, just to vent the pent and festering frustration deep within.

For Nelyafinwe Maitimo Maedhros Russandol, grandson of the Noldor's first High King and son of their most brilliant genius, was moping.

"GAAAAAHHHH!" screamed Feanor, clutching his dark head and turning away from his son, grey eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. Instantly all six of his deceased sons (and some rather perturbed passers-by) were at his side, desperate to know what could cause such dire wrath in a location known for being stellarly and singularly dull. When asked what was the matter, however, he repelled them all and stalked off, glaring daggers and threatening bodily harm to anyone foolish enough to follow him. He needed to be alone.

Once away from the crowd, Feanor's rage lessened to a low albeit steady simmer; his mind cleared. That idiot son of his had touched off the explosion by bringing up, yet again, that infernal nonsense of a counseling program Maedhros had once tried to run. It had been an abysmal failure: the damages to the conference room were staggering; they'd had no word from any of the members since; and Maedhros had plunged into the depths of utter, desolate despair. Feanor was not at all sorry the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group had been disbanded, but the mood it had put Maedhros in was incredibly agitating.

_He's almost as bad as Maglor,_ thought Feanor, sitting down and stretching out his long legs. _Content just to mope and mumble...at least Maglor amounted to something in the end._ His mind now turned to thoughts of his only still-living son, the only one who had truly succeeded. Maglor, when last sighted, had fulfilled his father's Oath.

_I wonder what he's doing, alone on Endor with my Silmaril? He certainly is taking his time; one would think he'd have found a way to get it to me by now. There must be some way to carry an object to the Halls of Waiting._ Growing restless and impatient with death in general, and desperately needing an excuse to escape from his son's present condition, Feanor resolved then and there to request permission to return to Middle-earth to locate his errant son and reclaim his property.

As with so many of his desires, he was denied.

"Perhaps you do not understand," Feanor said pointedly. He now stood in a small audience chamber, pleading his case eloquently yet fruitlessly to Namo, Vala of Mandos. "I do not wish to live a second life or even travel much. All I want is a temporary reunion with my son, whom I have not seen for, nearly literally, an Age. I leave, I visit with him, I return." Anger began to churn within him and he lost all semblance of politeness. "I should have known that this would happen. Always have you Valar sought to keep me and mine crushed beneath your boots weighted with despotic authority, caged and confined us in your clutching claws, chained us—"

"That will do, Curufinwe." Namo's reverberating voice had a horrible finality to it. Feanor bit his lip but did not bow his proud head. He would never show shame for speaking the truth. In his mind, he tried to guess what the Lord of Mandos's next move would be; the cowled head was bent as if deep in thought. Finally Namo spoke again.

"Fetch Nelyafinwe your son and return again with him. I have a proposition I wish to make."

Startled, Feanor hastily composed himself and left with a mocking bow. Maedhros? What did that fool Vala want with _Maedhros_?

"Idiocy loves company," he muttered, smiling bitterly, as he went in search of his son.

"Perhaps I misunderstood." Feanor couldn't believe his ears as he stood yet again before Namo, his son in tow. "You want Maedhros—my _son_ Maedhros—" he said the word "son" with such obvious disdain that the elf in question flushed in shame "--and his ragtag group of whining, coughing, moping, sniveling, utterly pathetic _morons_ to travel to Middle-earth and scour the coastline for Maglor as part of the 'recovery process'…and yet I am not to be included, though the idea was originally mine?"

"I am powerless in your case," Namo said. "Your actions make it impossible for me to allow you contact with the world again. So have you been judged."

Feanor opened his mouth to reply, but Maedhros cut him off with a wave of his left (and only) hand. "Never mind, Father. It doesn't matter because I'm not going. My efforts were a failure. The Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group is quite extinct." He sighed. "Though I must admit the prospect is tempting. Sorely have I missed my brother during these torturous years apart."

"Cease the dramatics before you make me retch," Feanor snapped in a fit of self-righteous hypocrisy. Glaring at his son, he grew even more enraged when the redhead would not meet his eyes.

Namo jolted them both back to the task at hand. "Not so, Nelyafinwe. You do not realize how much your associates benefited. Raistlin Majere has been given permission to move onto another plane of existence. Ken Ichijouji is now dating a girl. Lucemon grows in power daily."

"And that's a good thing?" Feanor remarked dryly; the fallen angel had made no friends at the meeting he attended, to put it lightly.

Maedhros seemed lost in thought. "True, true…and I do miss Maglor…but I must be fair to my father."

_Good boy,_ thought Feanor.

"Let some other members stay behind as well. I don't need the whole group, and some might attract attention."

_What!_

Namo, considering, nodded. "Name your companions."

Maedhros hesitated only a moment. "Ken Ichijouji and Raistlin Majere."

"Very well." Namo was silent again, speaking, perhaps, with the gods of their worlds. In the silence, Maedhros began to murmur possible plans and strategies, while Feanor softly fumed, trying to discern how he could use the current situation to his own advantage. Deciding on a plan, he bowed his head at last, the very image of servility.

Waving a fold of his dark cloak, Namo caused himself and the two elves to instantly travel to the conference room in which the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group had met twice before, the second time with near-disastrous results. "From here shall you depart. We will be closely monitoring your actions should one of you accidentally or purposely fall into darkness again. Here they come." A brilliant light flashed in the chamber, and when it cleared two more figures stood in the newly repaired (though still a bit scarred, even if it did have a new door) conference room. One blinked blue eyes hesitantly and shook his dark head to clear the stars from those eyes; the other merely withdrew a black hood from his face and gripped his wooden staff a little tighter in a golden hand.

"Where…" the first began, then figured it out and replaced his query with "Why?"

"Why, indeed?" whispered the second, his hourglass eyes affixed on the Lord of Mandos. "I have finished my supposed rehabilitation. What now?"

"A quest," Mandos told them solemnly. "On the shores of Endor there dwells one whose life is steeped in sorrow. Maglor is his name, and you are to find him and console him if possible. Perhaps you may even convince him to swell your ranks."

Ken, the dark-haired boy, responded with another respectful "Why?" Then he realized someone was missing. "Where's Wormmon!"

"You will not need him," Namo replied, ignoring the subsequent outburst from the indignant Ken. "Gifts you will be given to aid you in your quest. You will find them with you when you arrive on the shore."

"Arrive on the shore?" Maedhros asked. "Aren't we sailing?"

Feanor, finally irritated beyond belief, broke his self-induced silence, snapping, "Not unless you can sail a ship with three people, one of whom is practically a child, one who can barely breathe, and one who is undeniably…handicapped."

Maedhros's face flushed, angered and chagrined, but Ken lay a hand on his shoulder and he did not respond to his father's taunt. Raistlin did not even look over; he was watching Namo. Feanor too watched the Vala, waiting for his chance.

"You will go now," Namo told them. Again the light flared.

Feanor lept into action.

Anakin Skywalker, known to most as Darth Vader, was drifting peacefully through the channels of the Force when a great cry rippled through it, jarring him out of reverie. Angered by this interruption of his communal, he sought its source.

Lucemon floated dazedly through the sky, dreaming of utopia and hiding from the angry crowds who had threatened to devour his data after he had very kindly proposed his solution to their problems (that they surrender to him and let him run their lives) when he felt more than heard a furious scream. Curious, he pursued it.

Roger of Conte had been sent by his gods, though not without putting up a magnificent struggle, to a conference place where he was told he would "recover." He had laughed at them then. Now he stood in the corner, stroking his beard and musing. It wasn't every day one got to see another dimension's Power through a temper tantrum.

For that undeniably was what Namo was doing. The guile—the nerve—the rebellion of Curufinwe Feanor angered him who remained impassive through all things. The Noldo had figured out he could not physically return to Middle-earth, and that the Valar would never grant him permission to spiritually make the journey. So he had devised a way to go without that permission. As the three Recovering Evil Madmen departed for the shores of Middle-earth, Feanor's spirit had jumped inside Maedhros's body, taking up residence within the elf's mind. Such a thing had never been done before. Indeed, Namo had not known such a thing could be done. It seemed inherently wrong, in addition to the outright rebellion of Feanor even after death.

Hence the rage that summoned unwittingly two more dark souls into his presence and intrigued a third, who happened to be in the right place at the right time. And as Namo looked at them, two of whom he knew and one who was new, it was his turn to scheme.

Maedhros woke with a splitting headache, like someone had pried his mind open to see what was inside then hadn't bothered to put him back together properly. Groaning, he pushed himself into a seated position on the beach with his hands.

Both his hands.

Staring, Maedhros gaped at the flawless right hand peeking out of a formerly empty sleeve. He flexed the fingers, examined them in wonder. Swiping the air with his fingers, he nearly fell over again in shock as five blades shot out the tips of his fingers and arched, hissing, through the air.

Well, that's interesting, said a voice inside his head.

Maedhros jumped to his feet, instinctively reaching down and drawing a sword that hadn't been buckled to his side in the conference room but now hung, waiting, at his side. "Who's there?" he cried, swinging the sword and forcing himself not to think about how he came to have it as he looked around. He stood on a beach, half-drenced by salt spray: the shores of the Sea. A bulging pack lay at his side. Lying in the sand nearby were Raistlin, one hand on his staff and another on a blood-red tome, and Ken, the boy's navy head crowned with a pair of purple-lensed yellow goggles.

The voice spoke again. However did you get others to follow you when you quail so in the face of the unknown? Your hand and your sword are the so-called gifts of the Valar; can you not see that? Or is your mind too blind with fear to do anything but brandish your weapon at shadows? I thought I had raised you to be of sterner stuff than this. You shame me. You dishonor me. 

"Father?" Maedhros's voice shook. "Where are you? You weren't allowed to come."

How astute of you. Thus I took matters into my own hands. Although I must say I do admire your new right one. Without Maedhros willing it, the blades shot out again. I wonder how they created it? 

"You're…in my head? Moving my body?" Maedhros was half-astounded, half-horrified.

I won't make a habit of it. I'm just here to ensure what is mine is given me. 

Realization dawned. "You're here for the Silmaril! Not Maglor! You don't care about him! How can you favor even something so magnificent over your own son, whose sorrows are your own fault?" Maedhros accused. "Your own fault, and mine…" His heart ached, knowing he was the one at last responsible for his brother's fate. Maglor had been sick of rebellion, but fey words spilled from Maedhros's lips had convinced him otherwise. The red-haired elf had paid for this final act of folly with his life, wanting the pain to end, and his soul bled to think he had forced a similar anguish onto his brother.

My reasons are my own, Feanor replied haughtily, unconsciously echoing the mantra of the black-robed man who now stirred on the ground. As Maedhros watched his companions wake, he knew he should feel dread at the prospect looming before them. Scour the entire coastline, looking for one elf? Impossible. And his father's presence and ability to literally manipulate him as he had so skillfully done figuratively in ages past brought him no great ecstasy either. Yet looking down at the pack by his feet, Maedhros felt the first true stirrings of hope within him since the formation of his group.

A book sticking out of the pack read "Basic Recovery from Fell Deeds: A Handbook for the Forsaken, Misguided, or Just Plain Messed Up." The Valar had given him a mission, and Maedhros was an elf of action long used to being driven by a cause.

Hopefully, he thought wryly as he remembered his father, the cause wouldn't end up driving him.

a/n: Yes, I know it's not that funny yet. This was a set-up chapter more than anything else. Yes, I know the hand thing is weird; I wanted to cut it but it's already in a picture that I will be posting on my blog ASAP that I'm really rather fond of otherwise so it's staying in. The reason for the blades will be given later; there is a reason, I swear. Yes, I know Feanor wouldn't even be able to jump inside Maedhros but Tolkien made it really hard for people to use good ol' Curufinwe in stories without bending a concept or two. I'm upset about this myself, and transfer my displeasure to Namo, making him even more OOC than he was to begin with, but the dude's a plot device in this. Sorry, Namo! We love you!

I forgot to say, the use of is taken from KA Applegate's Animorphs series, of which I was quite a big fan back in the day.

Replies to reviewers:

Romancebookwormlover4ever aka yael3000: Congratulations on the account! I hope your summer is going well and you like this the latest adventure of my lovely little group. BTW, you might like a listy thing I've got going on my blog; you'd probably know where the Phantom belongs more than me.

Mirowood: I thanked you for the review on the phone, but thanks again. You too should check out the list on my blog; I believe you told me you have several characters from your own stories to add? Okay, I'll stop advertising for myself now. Seriously, man, what's up? How's Angel's Fear coming?

Dalamar Nightson: Yeah, Maedhros cries quite a bit, poor guy. Well, Roger didn't do much here, sorry, but he takes a much more active role in the next chapter…and eventually ends up dueling another wizard whose name, coincidentally, starts with the same letter as his. Hope you liked his chapter and stay tuned.

I don't know if that was worth the wait or not, but there you have it. Chapter One of the first REMSG sequel. Now to type another chapter of Two Story Town…then another one of this…and so on…

See you later!


	2. Out Of The Inn

Yeah, so this is up later than I said it would be; am I ever on time? Thing is, I got disabled. Again. The musical wasn't even a script anymore, dangit! Ah well. Less than a week and the story was off: is that a record?

FYI, usually I use dub names for things with the Digimon characters but I refer to Lucemon's second stage as "Falldown Mode" as per Japan, not the American "Chaos Mode," as that label is actually the polar opposite of what he was attempting to enforce and thus I have a major problem with it. Cuz I'm a stickler like that. (I also screw up a lot so I'm a hypocritical stickler like that).

I own nothing, never have, doo dah, doo dah….(oh come on, surely you all know Camptown Racers?)

Anyway, before I freak myself out even more, here's Chapter Two. Hope everyone enjoys it….

Oh. One more thing. In my original Word draft, all of Feanor's lines were in those little brackety things you get when you hit shift-comma and shift-period, but they vanished when I posted. So now his thought-quotations are all in **bold**.

All I Want, Chapter Two: Every Motley Group of Adventurers Gets Kicked Out Of An Inn At Some Point Or Another In Their Journeying

"_How many times is it gonna take/Till someone around you hears what you say?"-_The Offspring, "All I Want"

"Let me get this straight, Reject," Lucemon began, switching out of Falldown Mode—a form he had only recently been allowed to reinhabit, some sort of gift, the cloaked figure had said—as he followed the three sets of footprints leading down the beach.

"Roger," the tall, bearded man interrupted him, a flash of ire in his blue eyes though his smile remained firmly in place. "My name is Roger."

"I know," the angel told him sullenly; he had said "reject," and he had meant it. To say he was in a bad mood would be putting it mildly. Heaving a heavy sigh as an expression of his extreme discontent, he continued his sentence. "Just let me get this straight. We have to track these three guys, who abandoned us, while they track some other guy for no apparent reason at all. And we are doing this…why?" Next to him, Darth Vader nodded his helmeted head in agreement; the ability to become plain Anakin Skywalker once more had been Namo's gift to the Dark Lord, but something about this Duke Roger of Conte made him want to appear as threatening as possible. Vader didn't trust Roger. Lucemon didn't either.

So why, both of them wondered, were they following him?

The subject of their discontent seemed to have no perception of this unspoken animosity at all. If anything, the more nervous they became, the calmer he appeared, absentmindedly toying with a blue jeweled pendant around his neck; the light glanced off its surface in a million directions, distracting Vader and giving Lucemon a headache he wouldn't wish even on the Legendary Warriors. Smiling, Roger explained with ease the purpose of their quest, and despite himself Lucemon relaxed, believing every word.

"Our task is, as you say, a simple one. The three whom we track were sent to find this Maglor as punishment; it is an impossible task. Unfortunately a dangerous criminal has infiltrated their ranks, seeking the treasure their quarry possesses. That is why we were given the gifts, to aid in our assault upon them. All of us have gained in power, or stealth, or both."

"So what did you get?" Lucemon demanded. "Besides the ability to be a stuffy know-it-all?"

Despite this jibe, Roger still didn't tell, lost in his own thoughts. His Gift had been enhanced, imbued with a power he did not understand yet reveled secretly in possessing. His two companions thus far were resisting his attempts to control them, but there was still time. Contrary to what he had said, Roger did not believe Maedhros's quest to be futile. He intended to be there when Maglor was found, when the great treasure—supposedly containing semi-divine properties—was uncovered. And he intended to take it for his own. Crystals were always useful in spellcasting, could be enchanted and occasionally used as enhancers. Roger needed more power for his great plan, the plan he'd died attempting to implement. Already his Gift had been strengthened. It was almost as if the gods themselves were goading him into action…

This thought depsressing him strongly, Roger quickened his pace, causing Lucemon to stumble over his own toga in an effort to catch up. Irritated, Vader reached down a black-gloved hand and swung Lucemon up over one massive shoulder. Not bothering to say "thank you," the angel, resenting being treated like a sack of flour, watched the back of the wizard in front of him, but could not figure out for the life of him what was really going on.

"Remarkable," Raistlin commented, sipping at a cup of foul-smelling tea. "That is without a doubt the most idiotic rubbish I have ever read." Casually tossing onto the table the Fell Deeds handbook, he returned to the red-bound text discovered by his side upon waking, a spellbook he suspected as having once belonged to the same owner as his staff.

**I suppose next some undead spirit will arrive bearing this Magius's undergarments as a gift for your sickly friend,** Feanor remarked as Maedhros protectively snatched the handbook back. ** He seems to own many of the man's personal possessions already.**

"As you are not supposed to be here, would you kindly pretend you aren't and be _silent, _Father?" Maedhros growled, his bad mood deepened by Raistlin's casual dismissal of his recovery guide. Frowning, he sipped his wine and grimaced; elven senses are tuned to appreciate quality, and the fare at this particular inn was anything but.

Ken had found the place, a lonely outpost on the shores of the Sea, and they had stopped to gather information both about the world in general and about the gifts mysteriously bequeathed to them. Maedhros had his hand, the sword, and a pack literally stuffed with pamphlets, books, flyers, and various other paraphernalia detailing the regulations, mission, and steps of the "Basic Recovery From Fell Deeds Program." Already he was totally immersed in the guide, having read about Phase One ("Form A Counseling Group") and just beginning the second, "Do A Good Deed For A Friend," all the while ignoring the rather cynical running commentary provided by the Noldo who happened to be residing in his head.

Raistlin in turn had his own book, and it looked as if nothing short of an apocalypse could tear him away from its pages. Like a miner burrows through the earth in search of a gem, the mage dug hungrily into the texts, seeking the magic he knew it contained, the powers that soon would be his. As he read, he afforded Maedhros a glance out of the corner of his eye. If the Valar—or whatever those strange other gods were called—expected these spells to be of use…He wondered if the elf knew how much danger they possibly were in, but said nothing, returning to his mining.

Unlike Raistlin's eager zealousness, Ken viewed his own gift with equal parts confusion, dread, and guilt. Angry and scared, he handled the yellow goggles with purple lenses gingerly, as if afraid just touching them would revive the Emperor lurking somewhere within him. Granted, they weren't the same pair he'd worn back then; they were blockier, with a Crest of the Kindness on the nosepiece and an elastic strap. Nonetheless, the memories they brought back were so shameful he hadn't even tried them on to see what powers they might possess.

Forcing himself to swallow a cup of brackish water (the only non-alcoholic drink at the inn; Raistlin had brought his own tea herbs), Ken finally forced himself to pick the goggles up and, hands shaking, slowly placed them in front of his eyes. The strap snapped into place. Maedhros looked up, noticing the boy was trying his gift at last.

Nothing happened.

Ken managed a weak, embarrassed smile. "That's a relief," he mumbled feebly, not knowing exactly what he'd expected, gulping water down his suddenly dry throat and wishing fervently for a glass of cleaner water. A big, clear, sparkling glass of…

_Crackle! Fzzt!_

With a sound like buzzing electricity, a glass of water appeared in Ken's hand. Both he and Maedhros stared, astounded at the sight; a few other patrons at their table, with whom Ken had overheard Maedhros discussing someone named "Elros Tar-Minyatur" from some place called "Numenor" edged away from Ken nervously, forcing Raistlin to slide further down the wooden bench he reluctantly shared with them.

"How'd you do that?" one asked.

"Magic?" asked the other, a bit fearful; Raistlin smirked, as the man was sitting directly next to him.

"I…don't know," Ken stammered, just as bewildered. "It just…created it." He knew he wasn't being completely coherent, but he didn't care.

Feanor, however, cared a great deal. **The spectacles enable creation? I must see this.** As it had before, Maedhros's arm moved without his willing it to, wrenching the goggles off Ken's head before the boy had a chance to react.

"Father!" Maedhros scolded aloud, appalled. "You said you wouldn't do that anymore!" The elf's strange action coupled with this sentence caused Raistlin to look up from his studies, hourglass eyes glinting in the depths of his black velvet hood. "An interesting exclamation," he whispered, "one which you perhaps would care to explain?"

Maedhros wouldn't have cared to explain even if Raistlin had been the only one to notice, but unfortunately everyone in the general vicinity had heard his annoyed exclamation. One of the men fingered the hilt of a sword. "He's not…crazed, is he?" the man asked.

Pulling his hood even lower, Raistlin stepped to Maedhros's side and gently pried the goggles free. "He has these spasms from time to time," the mage replied smoothly, pocketing the goggles and guiding Maedhros's hand back to the tabletop, "a result of the horrific experience in the recent war. But the madness does pass…eventually."

"BLAST YOU, MAGE!" Feanor screamed with Maedhros's voice as the elf to whom the body actually belonged scrabbled to regain control. Grabbing Raistlin harshly, Feanor spun him around to face the men and pushed him forward, yanking the hood off in the process. White hair spilled over golden skin, but it was not enough to hide it. The men shrank back in horror.

Feanor crowed in triumph. "And he dares call _me_ crazed!"

Ken stood and moved defensively to Raistlin's side, where the men were muttering about "demons of Morgoth." "He's not a demon!" he told them hotly.

"That's absolutely right!" Maedhros shouted loudly; he was in control once more. "My pardons!"

"I do not accept," said Raistlin coldly, calculations clicking in the hourglass eyes. "Such conduct in public is inexcusable. You must learn to temper your…spirit of fire."

So Raistlin knew, or at least suspected; they'd discussed names and language earlier in the morning. Ken…Ken would not know unless he was told; for someone so intelligent it took him a while to grasp certain concepts. Maedhros looked around, summing up the situation, and groaned: the innkeeper was heading over.

**Well done,** said Feanor.

"Was that directed at me or you?" Maedhros muttered through clenched teeth as he went to calm the frantic man down.

Now the entire common room was staring at Raistlin, who instead of replacing his hood stood proudly erect with his hair thrown back, surveying the side with wide-eyed, unfathomable intent. Maedhros intercepted the innkeeper en route to the golden-skinned archmage.

"My very sincerest apologies, respectable sir," he told him, bowing slightly, "for any disruption we may have caused. I can assure you that no further instances—"

"KILL THE DEMON!" screamed a man, weapon out and flashing in the firelight.

"Please excuse me."

**You, my son, are the very pinnacle of diplomatic excellence. However do you manage it?** Feanor's voice, though inaudible, was most definitely smug.

"I follow your example," Maedhros responded as he elbowed his way to the table and snatched up his recovery guide, ignoring for a moment the chaos erupting around him as Raistlin was beset on all sides. The mage, he knew, could take perfectly good care of himself.

In fact, that was exactly what he was afraid of.

Flipping frantically through the pages, Maedhros found the section of his book he wanted and called aloud. "Raistlin! Please! Remember the steps!"

"What steps?" the mage asked calmly; he'd erected an invisible barrier around himself for the time being, but based on the sweat shining on his golden skin, that was weakening.

"The steps outlined within these pages! I know you think less than highly of them, but please, listen to me! I merely want to keep you from doing something less than conducive to your recovery process!"

"I am listening, though I will cease to do so if you do not arrive soon at your point."

Sighing, Maedhros began to read aloud, his voice barely audible over the door. "How To Prevent Yourself From Doing Something Evil…And I Mean Really Evil, Not Just Mildly Naughty…In Five Easy Steps. Step One…"

**Are you quite certain that is a credible source of information?**

"Be QUIET, Father! Step One…"

**I've not uttered a word!**

"STEP ONE," Maedhros bellowed, trying to drown his father's sarcasm in his head.

**Yes, you've said that already. They're waiting with bated breath. Your mage is weakening. Shouldn't you get on with it? What's keeping you?**

"FATHER," Maedhros screamed, tears welling in his eyes, "IN THE NAME OF THE SILMARILS YOU YOURSELF FORGED, AND THAT MORGOTH BAUGLIR SO CRUELLY STOLE, AND THAT I GAVE MY VERY LIFE TO RECLAIM IN VAIN, _BE SILENT!"_

Everyone instantly stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at Maedhros. Raistlin's shield broke. The innkeeper trundled over and clapped a hand on Maedhros's shoulder.

"Thank you for stopping that," he said, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to vacate the premises. Disturbing the peace, you see; I can't afford a reputation as operating a rowdy establishment…"

"What?" Ken's voice broke.

"You heard me."

And thus it was that the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group, the hand-picked champions of the Lord of Mandos on a Vala-dictated mission, were rather unceremoniously dumped out the back of a backwater inn on the shores of the Sea.

They continued on their way for about an hour when Maedhros realized something.

"Does anyone have my pack?"

a/n: And so that's that. Feanor's getting a Raistish streak, like I said, but as Raist himself was otherwise engaged in that scene, _some_body had to do his heckling.

Hope this chapter was lively and engaging…or something. I'd say "funny," but "funny" seems to be on indefinite hiatus with me and we are all eagerly anticipating its return home.

Review replies:

**Romancebookworm4ever:** Yay, I got your penname right…I emailed you about the list thing. As for your confusion, sorry; hopefully soon I'll post everyone's backstory on my blog so people can visit that as more and more references become crucial to the plot. I'll let you know when that's up.

**Dalamar Nightson:** Thanks so much for pointing out my Feanor-speaking thing wasn't coming through. Hopefully this bolding thing works. As for the duel…just keep reading…I would love to give my opinion of who would win but that would spoil the next few chapters…btw, is Raist in character, or is he too silent and not sarcastic enough? I'm having trouble with figuring out when he would insult people and when he would do his blend-into-the-shadows-and-store-valuable-info-away-for-further-use thing.

**Mirowood: **Haven't started researching the people on the list yet but that's only because I got handed another list…one of, ah, chores…but I did get Lyon 101: The Continuing Saga (ie even more info) from my brother. Don't be surprised if he shows up at some point; he'd mingle well with these guys…besides, with all the hotheads, we need a passive guy around here.

**FROM THE QUILL OF FIDEL**: Sorry, but it's staying. If you don't like it, don't read it, or tell me what you don't like so I can take a look at it.

That's it. Fin. Whatever. Chapter 3 is inordinately long (at least it looks it handwritten), so please be patient with me. Thank you ever so much!

Coming up: Maedhros has a flashback, Feanor has difficulty controlling his temper, and Ken gets blasted into the air by some angry wizards.


	3. Angst, Demons, and Pyromaniac Feanor

Bet you all didn't expect an update this soon, huh? I've actually had time to type! Can you believe it?

Two quick notes: Sorry about the huge angsty italicized section right off the bat, but that's a scene I've wanted to write for a long time…and I know Tolkien's world doesn't really have "demons" in the strictest sense of the world (at least I don't think so), but to an uneducated early-Second-Age man, Orcs and fallen Maiar and the like could all be lumped into that category…the same goes for the innkeeper's rather fallacious retelling of the Noldolante…

But I won't get into all that, 'cuz this is a long one. Have fun.

(oh yeah: I don't own any of this. Even one of Maedhros's lines is adapted from "The Princess Bride")

All I Want, Chapter Three: Feanor's Unhealthy Preoccupation With Conflagration Continues, As He Has Neglected To Abide By The Proper Recuperative Processes

"This is all your fault," Maedhros snapped softly as he stalked back to the inn alone, having left Ken and Raistlin to continue the search.

**My fault? Pray, elaborate. **

Maedhros increased his pace, fire-red head held high.

**Trying to outrun me? It will be difficult.**

Unbidden, a picture of Feanor and Raistlin in an arena, each attempting to out-insult the other in front of an enraptured audience, swam into Maedhros's churning mind. He sought to banish it beneath choking waves of consciousness, stifling also the instinct to laugh, absurd as the idea might have been. Instead he focused on his brother, remembering another beach on which he had sought those he loved…

_The waves were rough that day, sending salt spray into the air and licking his wounds like wet fire. Blood from his wounds seeped into his clothes; a thin sticky rivulet ran down his naked sword and left a line in the sand. The blood was salty too, salty and bitter with iron; but the salt that stung the most was leaking from his horrified eyes. Once again he had done what he had vowed never again to do. Once more he had slain others of his kind. Revenge for his brothers, some had said; lust for the jewel, others whispered. He knew it was the Curse, though, the horrible weight that would not be lifted until he stayed true to his Oath. Yet was the weight's removal worth the aching hollowness of remorse after the clouds of battle fled his mind?_

_His throat was hoarse from war-cries and screams of regret, yet still he called over the thunder of the waves pounding on the shore, waves that had swallowed his objective and kept his house Dispossessed. _

"_Amrod! Amras! Maglor!" In earlier days three other names had rounded out the summons, but no one would come if he called them now. The seven had dwindled to four. Perhaps less, now that this fight had fallen on the shores of the Sea like an avalanche of hatred and futility._

"_Maglor! Amrod! Amra--Amrod!"_

_He had spotted something, a glint of red amidst fallen foes. Running to the pile, he uncovered the gasping form of a russet-haired warrior, fighting now for each breath. Gently he gathered the fallen warrior in his arms, lifted him out of sand made honey-sticky with blood._

"_The…jewel?" choked the wounded._

"_Gone," Maedhros whispered in a voice that barely existed. "Taken by Ulmo's realm."_

"_My brother?" The wounded elf did not need to specify which one._

"_I haven't seen Amras. Can you stand?"_

_But the wounded man did not seem to hear him. "Amras…please, meet me there…I don't want to go alone…" he whispered, then smiled._

_That smile worried Maedhros more than the most pain-filled grimace; he had seen it once before, on the face of one who moments later was naught but ashes on the wind. "Amrod…you're not going to leave. You're coming with me, and we're going to fulfill the Oath together."_

"_You…must do that now, Russandol. Amras…he and I are going together…he promised…and it is time to leave…I do not go alone…" Maedhros's littlest brother smiled again, a smile frozen forever in time._

_Hurling a great cry to the empty heavens, the skies whose guardians had forsaken and condemned his House, Maedhros staggered to his feet, still carrying his brother's body, now asleep for all time. Bearing this burden, he made his way along the misty shore until another figure, shrouded at first in fog, appeared. A dark-haired figure, carrying an identical sorrow._

"_No," sobbed Maedhros, blood and tears mingling freely on his battle-tarnished cheeks. "Not…both of them…"_

_Maglor, the apparition before him, nodded. He did not weep; his grief, Maedhros knew, could only be released through lament and song._

"_They left together," Maglor said. "Neither one would have wanted it any other way."_

_Maedhros had never been closer to his brother before, not in the blissful days of Valinor nearly forgotten nor through all the hardships after. The circle was now complete. They had been the first two sons of Curufinwe Feanor. Now they were the last._

_But now, _Maedhros thought, returning to a beach on which an inn and not his brothers—one dead, one alive—was approaching, _Maglor is the only one left. What keeps him clinging to this life? The Silmaril? His music? Perhaps the hope that I survived the torment as well and thus we will meet again? Well, we will meet, but it will not be as he imagined. I have not survived._

_I'll bet he never reckoned I'd bring Father, either._

Feanor had been respectfully silent while his eldest son brooded, perhaps realizing whatever Maedhros was contemplating was too sacred to interrupt, but now that their objective was in sight it was open range for target practice again. He proved to be an excellent shot.

**Mulling over past grievances again, my son? Wishing you could banish me from your mind now as you did all those years ago when first I left?**

"I never abandoned you. Your Oath was always on my mind."

**Then why did you take so long in its fulfillment? You knew where they lay for so long and made no move. And then, when the ruffians and vagabonds of Doriath did the service for which you lacked the courage, again you hesitated!**

"I 'hesitated', as you call it, because every time I have made a rash decision people have died because of it! And we are _not_ having this conversation any more! In fact"—Maedhros knocked on the door of the inn—"you will not speak again for the duration of our stop at this establishment!"

To his surprise, Feanor actually fell silent. Perhaps he was offended; perhaps he was stunned mute at the tone of authority his son commanded. Futile most of his ventures had been, but Maedhros was still a general. He still knew how to give orders.

The door opened a crack as the innkeeper peered out. "You again!" He began to shut the door.

Maedhros thrust his arm through the opening, keeping the door from closing completely. "Please, sir, hear me out! I honor your decision in expelling my party from your inn and would not dream of crossing your threshold after being banished thusly. However, I believe when I made my exit some of my effects remained behind. I merely wish to reclaim these possessions. Would you be so kind, therefore, as to hand me my pack?"

"Hey look," someone said inside, "the mad elf's back."

"Red hair," said another. "Have you ever heard of an elf with red hair?"

"Perhaps he's a demon!" Apparently one of the patrons had demonism on the brain and would not be dissuaded. "He was askin' strange questions about Numenor. Perhaps the demons are planning an attack!"

"I have heard of an elf with red hair," the first man said as the innkeeper went to fetch Maedhros's pack. "But they're all dead. The sons of Feanor."

"Feanor? Who's that?"

"A demon?"

**That man grows tiresome.**

"I concur wholeheartedly, Father." Maedhros shifted from one foot to another, waiting for the innkeeper to hand him his "effects," but the man had stopped to instruct the ignorant masses gathered in his common room.

"No, Feanor wasn't a demon, but you're close. He's the one what destroyed life for the elves and made them so fatalistic all the time. Think on it. Have you ever met a truly happy elf?"

Silence. Maedhros found he was craning his neck to hear.

"Feanor's fault, that." The innkeeper nodded sagely. "Wove a spell of magic and bewitched the elves when his house was looted. He claimed to hate the Dark Lord, but now most believe he was in secret working for him—"

"HOW DARE YOU! I NEVER—!"

Feanor, in his wrath, took over Maedhros without even realizing he had done so. "I NAMED HIM MORGOTH, AND ON HIS VERY DEATHBED, I CURSED HIM THRICE! BEWITCHED, SAY YOU? DESTROYED, SAY YOU? LIES! POISONOUS LIES SPREAD BY THE ENEMY TO GULLIBLE HYPOCRITES LIKE YOU, MORTALS! ERE YOUR RACE CAME INTO BEING I PERISHED! I KNOW THINGS NONE CAN EVEN BEGIN TO COMPREHEND! DEATH WOULD BE MERCIFUL FOR SLANDERERS LIKE YOURSELVES, WHO SPEAK OF WHAT THEY CANNOT UNDERSTAND! FOOLS, ALL OF YOU! CURSE YOU, AND YOUR RACE, AND ALL FOOLS!" Fumbling at the sword, for while his son wielded a blade left-handed (and buckled it accordingly) he favored the right, Feanor drew it and lifted it aloft. To his immense surprise and the terror of the man's patrons, the blade burst into flame.

Horrified, the innkeeper flung the pack out onto the sand and slammed shut the door. Feanor laughed and mock-bowed to the door, sweeping the sword and catching the inn afire. Then he shouldered the pack and strode off, as Maedhros struggled to shoulder his astonishment, his fear, and his guilt.

Smoke curling up from the horizon caught Vader's eye as he trailed along the beach behind Roger, yet in front of Lucemon. He stared at it, wondering whether or not to inform the Duke of its existence, but Lucemon took the decision out of his hands.

"Oh, wow! Look at that! Hey, maybe something got pillaged. Or razed. They should have waited for me. I'm very good at destroying to rebuild anew. I mean, you can't make utopia from what's already in existence, that's too messed up from other people's ideas. So you gotta start from scratch…"

"Be quiet," said Roger calmly, eyes fixed on the rising tendrils. Lucemon fell silent as if he had been suddenly struck mute. Perhaps, Vader mused, he had.

Roger seemed to make his mind up about something. "Follow me," he stated in the same level yet compelling tone, and set off at a determined pace towards the smoke. His companions followed unquestioningly.

Soon another figure came into view, clutching a sword and seemingly arguing with itself; it brought with itself the scent of smoke and of guilt.

"This is one of them," Roger hissed. "Hide and we will—"

Too late. Resolve set, his own master at last, Anakin Skywalker strode forth to the field of battle, mask disappearing as he assumed the younger, lither form of his Jedi days. This swordsman looked like one who would rely on speed and flexibility; he had to compensate accordingly. A pity he was now shorter than his opponent.

His lightsaber in his hand but deactivated, Anakin stood squarely in the figure's path.

"Yes, what do you want? Stop that, Father! I'm terribly sorry," it said.

Anakin sighed. He'd been such a fool, getting apprehensive about the dangers he might face. This pointy-eared coppertop was obviously touched in the head. "I want nothing from you," he told it, "save to return you whence you came." _Then I can leave, _he added silently._ The sooner I get this done, the sooner I get what I want._

This apparently was quite an unwanted answer, to judge from the response it provoked: the elf put his sword up in a "guard" position. As Anakin activated his lightsaber, he recognized his foe from his few brief moments at the last Group meeting. The last time he'd seen this individual, the redhead was bawling his eyes out. Pity. He'd been hoping for a decent challenge, someone skilled with a blade; the problem with being unparalleled, Anakin had discovered, was that things got boring after a while. Of course, then one put one's guard down, and eventually received a most unpleasant surprise…

…which, he realized with a jolt, was exactly what was transpiring here. The elf's blade had suddenly, inexplicably changed to that of a lightsaber, and he was attacking.

The sword was still in Maedhros's right hand after the catastrophe in the inn, and so it was that Feanor fought the first few blows of the battle against the dark lord, attacking with a singular force and drive the Sith respected yet a carelessness for which he felt a deep disdain. Here was someone who valued the lightsaber not for its elegance or its symbolism but merely as a means to an end, a way to lop somebody's head off and thus rid yourself of the hassle of dealing with him. Vader—Anakin—could have no respect for a swordsman like this. He resolved to end the duel quickly and struck.

The elf countered just in time, but with an expert twist Vader disarmed him. The saber fell to the ground, though strangely its blade still hummed its existence. He disregarded it, his weapon at the throat of the enemy. But something seemed wrong. The elf was smiling.

Maedhros nodded in answer to the dark lord's unasked question. "I apologize for deceiving you, sir, but there's something you must know. You see…"

Claws snaked out from his right hand and he swiped, striking the flesh that had been covered by a mask for so long Vader had forgotten what it felt like to bleed, giving the redhaired elf a chance to rearm himself with a quick grab. "…I'm not right-handed." He attacked.

Something had changed. Here was a foe who appreciated the subtleties of saber-fighting. Vader bowed his head respectfully, ignoring the blood seeping out from his weak flesh, muttered "I've got a bad feeling about this…", and battle in earnest began.

It seemed to Ken that, once Raistlin started coughing, nothing and no one could get him to stop. While the two sat on the beach by the fire they had started, waiting for a kettle of water to boil so Ken could fix Raistlin his herbal tea, the mage was unable to eat even the simple bread the boy had conjured. He coughed and coughed, his slender body racked and stricken; his throat grew raw and his lungs felt like they were being torn to shreds. Eyes closed, wiping blood from his mouth, he collapsed on the ground.

Instantly Ken was at his side, goggles firmly in place in front of his eyes. No medicine he could think of to conjure would help the golden-skinned man, but…

"A cot," he muttered to himself, stretching his hands out. "Something for him to lie on until the spasm has passed. And"—inspiration struck—"a kettle of boiling water." Helping Raistlin to lie down on the cot, an object created out of digital data yet solid in form, he poured the new kettle out into a cup and added the herbs, disregarding the one over the fire entirely. The coughing fit subsided as Ken, holding the cup in one hand and propping Raistlin's head up with the other, gave the black-robed man his tea.

Heaving a shuddering sigh, the mage lay back on the cot and did not speak for several moments, savoring the pleasure of simply breathing in-out, in-out. Finally he turned bleary, but focused, golden eyes on Ken and whispered, "You seem to have achieved…quite the mastery of your little gift."

"Oh!" Ken blushed. "Well. Yes, I guess. I've…manipulated data before so when I figured out that's all they were doing…"

"Fool." Raistlin's thin, blood-flecked lips curled in an ungrateful sneer. "And you claim intelligence, even genius. Open your eyes! They are tempting you, 'Creator', as they are tempting us all. For that is their plan; do you not see?" He smiled. "No. No, of course you don't. And even if you did, there is no guarantee that you would care, either."

"What?"

But Raistlin was asleep, or near sleep, or feigning sleep; in any case, he was unavailable for comment. As his arms, rigid during the spasm, relaxed, a small book slipped from one of his spacious sleeves. Ken reached down and picked it up. "Maedhros's Fell Deeds handbook…you took it from him?"

A rose petal marked, presumably, a page of importance to the mage. Opening to it, Ken began to read, and understanding slowly dawned on him, its rays steadily piercing the gloom shrouding the horizons of his mind.

"_After or during Phase Two (Do A Good Deed For A Friend), the Recovering Evil Madman should undergo, with caution, Phase Three: Conversion Of The Corrupt. This phase is by far the most dangerous for two main reasons. Firstly, the ex-villain will be confronted not only with potential bodily harm but also a blaring reminder of his former self in the form of the being he is supposed to convert. This could very easily prompt overwhelming waves of guilt or, on the flip side, lead him back down the path into eternal darkness. Secondly, the ex-villain should be given gift(s) to help him, but the most useful gifts are often of a nature such that they represent one of his darker talents, desires, and/or qualities. In short, abuse of the gift—which by its very nature would be very easy to abuse—negates all the progress made by the ex-ex-evildoer on his road to recovery and he has to start all over again. This is not only tedious and time-consuming, but also usually detrimental to the health and well-being of those in the vicinity of the subject."_

Not needing to read any more, Ken replaced the rose petal and set the book down next to Raistlin's new red spellbook. _Of course_, the dark-haired boy thought, taking his goggles off and staring at them like they had just appeared. _Of course. Our darkest desires…our passions, which can help and hurt us, corrupted and twisted as they have become by our fall…it makes perfect sense. Raistlin loves and is talented in magic, but it feeds his cold-blooded obsession with power, so he gets a spellbook. Maedhros fought the Ultimate Evil of this world, not because it was the right thing to do but for revenge, and he slew other elves as well, so he gets a sword. His people became united after his half-cousin freed him by cutting off his hand, but despair was planted in his heart by his captivity; so he's given the hand back with deadly claws. I guess he gets two gifts, plus the pack, because he's supposedly the leader. It's his brother we have to find and, probably, get to join the group. He is guilty of the same crimes as Maedhros._

Ken had been avoiding analyzing his own gift, afraid to confront the thing he held in his hand, but he steeled his nerves and forced himself. _They have the Crest of Kindness on the bridge, but what does that mean? Probably nothing. I thought I could control data, that it was mine to use how and where I wanted. So now I'm given total control. The power of creation…and I have enjoyed it. I've only used it to help, though; that first glass of water was an accident. But I like to know I have some control over a situation, that I won't be helpless in a crisis like I was when Sam…when he had his accident and all I could do was stare._ His fist clenched. _ Yes, I like having this power, but I have learned part of my lesson, haven't I? I haven't wreaked havoc with another Kimeramon. I haven't created life._

_Or am I just rationalizing?_

Behind him the kettle over the fire began to boil over. The noise made Ken glance up. He stared, shocked.

"Hi," said Lucemon. "The elf won't be coming back."

Ken jumped to his feet, unsure in his course of action. His first thought was to don the goggles and conjure a weapon with which to combat the angel and the bearded stranger behind him; then he thought that might be the path of temptation and faltered. Lucemon laughed at what he thought was an attitude of defeat.

"You really are making this too easy, human. I knew you people were weak, but honestly I'm a bit disappointed. I'd hoped—"  
"Shut up," said the bearded man in a pleasant voice accompanied by an unpleasant smile. Lucemon did as he was told, and Ken was impressed with the newcomer in spite of himself. Had he, or any other of his fellow "ex-villains" as the Handbook had put it, uttered those two words to Lucemon, the angel would've attacked them.

The man turned a far more disarming smile on Ken. "Sorry about that. I merely wish to speak to the wizard. Where is he?"

"Wizard?" Ken bluffed, stalling for time in which to make up his mind. "There's no wizard here…"

"No need to add lying to your list of sins on my account," came a sibilant voice behind him. "I am here and ready to treat with the gentleman." Raistlin stood and faced the bearded man. "If one could call him that."

The man's expression changed ever so slightly; a hint of menace lurked in his smile and hid in his eyes. "Awfully rude of you, mage. Do you know what happens to the friends of rude people? They get hurt."

Something exploded around Ken; he felt himself be rocketed into the air and was dimly aware of hearing Raistlin chant something before he felt a whooshing sensation all around him and…

Ken landed on a deserted stretch of rocky, cave-strewn beach. Shaking sand out of his hair, he realized Raistlin had saved his life. He had teleported Ken out of harm's way.

The familiar teeth of guilt began to nibble. Yes, Raistlin had saved him. Now the mage would have to face both the strange man and Lucemon.

Alone.

a/n: Next chapter's the big fight one! Swords in one area, magic in another…it's an awfully violent beach. I don't think I want to vacation there.

Scenes One and Two of my musical are now on my blog (click "homepage" on my bio or just type in  if anybody wants to check them out. Unfortunately, due to the nature of blogs, the scenes will be in reverse order, so to read it chronologically you'll have to scroll down to Scene One, then back up. We here in Management apologize for the inconvenience.

Review replies:

**Mirowood:** The goggles reaction is because he wore a similar apparatus as part of his evil alter ego's outfit…probably should have explained that in my chapter…and the "spirit of fire" thing is because that's what the name "Feanor" means. As for Raistlin being the weaker of the two mages…just wait and see. (He had several comments about that but I won't publish them here.) And as for Lyon…well, let's just say my brother is replaying Fire Emblem, only he's taking notes this time. Thanks for reviewing; it's always nice to hear from you, since we never seem to be able to coordinate a phone call.

**Abbie:** Thanks a bunch! BTW, I subscribed to your blog, so I am reading it, and it's very very funny. I just can't think of anything to say in a comment, and I feel silly since I haven't got a profile picture yet…everybody else has these nice little pictures and I'm still inking the one I want to use. Lots of Roger in the next chapter, so pleasy please keep reading.

**Sangfroid:** Yes, I know, you didn't review, not this story anyway…but you sort of reviewed it when you responded to "Two Story Town"…thank you thank you thank you! It sounds weird, but I missed reading your reviews. They always made me laugh, and I really like it when people tell me they like specific things, like you do. As per your musical request…like I said at the beginning of these author's notes, some is on the blog now.

And now I must be off, to type histories for these guys to post on my blog for confused readers; the further in I get, the more references to their past lives are included. The next story in this trilogy is cameo-laden, as well, so I'll probably have to do a "Who's Who." I would love to have been able to put a lot of LOTR cameos in this one, but Maedhros stated categorically in the first story that it had been "two hundred and forty-eight human years…" since his last great work of evil (ie stealing the Silmaril and killing the guards) so we were stuck with the Second Age. On Krynn, however, time moves a little faster…whoops, gave away where they're headed next. Oh well. Let's just say the _Shalafi_ isn't quite done with his apprentice, and his old foe even in death rears her ugly head (formerly heads)…

I'll leave you with that.


	4. Everyone Nearly Dies Of Various Causes

How long has it been since I've updated? A month? Two? How long ago did I say this would be ready? Three weeks? Two? Something has to have a two in it…

Anyway, here's chapter 4, it's pretty long, so I'll just dive on in, first pausing to remark on how very little (read: none) of this is actually mine…

All I Want, Chapter Four: Raistlin Nearly Dies Of Asphyxiation; Maedhros Nearly Dies Of Decapitation; Ken Nearly Dies Of Revelation

They had been fighting for ten minutes, and things were not looking good for Roger of Conte. He had disdainfully left his sword in its scabbard, figuring he'd humiliate his opponent before killing him by using magic; but that had backfired. His freakish foe—Raistlin? Yes, that was it, Raistlin Majere—somehow managed to guess and block every spell Roger sent his way. What was even worse, fumed the Conte Duke, was that he had the infuriating feeling that, offensively, Raistlin was just playing around, and eventually he'd casually incinerate Roger and walk away calmly, perhaps coughing a bit, as he seemed to do that often. Indeed, it was his only weakness as a magical opponent. This was no time to show off. It was time to play dirty.

Roger waited, tense, his sword loose in its sheath as it hung by his side. He could not fight this strange man, not when his opponent seemed to know every spell he would cast before he even fully formed it in his mind. He could not best him in magic…but one quick sword thrust through that miserable hacking body would do the job just as well.

Flexing his fingers in preparation, he began to mutter the incantation that would send his blade, self-crafted and bound by his own blood, flying into his waiting grasp. All he had to do was lure the mage closer…

Raistlin stepped forward, lowered his staff, began an incantation of his own. Roger licked lips that were suddenly parched. "With silver and stone I made thee…"

The black-robed man moved closer still.

"With Gift and blood I bound thee…"

Golden eyes narrowed; golden hands clenched the staff more tightly.

"With my name I call thee!"

Shrieking, the sword flew into Roger's hand and he lunged, a feral cry escaping his mouth in triumph.

With a surprisingly quick sweeping motion, Raistlin parried the thrust with his staff, knocking the blow awry. _How did he know?_ wondered Roger wildly. _How did he know what I was about to do?_

Raistlin smiled sagely and spoke for the first time in minutes that had seemed like hours to the Duke of Conte. "Don't look so surprised. If I glowed orange every time I was about to cast a spell, I wouldn't get cocky." He swung the staff at Roger's head.

_He can see my Gift!_ Roger swung his sword in a wide arc that should have not only blocked the staff but also sheared it cleanly in two.

Instead it was the sword that shattered.

Pain exploded in Roger's arm and he dropped to his knees, his right arm bleeding and cradled to his chest while his left scrabbled frantically for his wizard's rod. A Gate of Idramm! He would draw a Gate of Idramm in the sand, and then… as his hand closed over the magical instrument, a booted foot pinned both hand and rod to the ground.

"Tell me, _wizard_," Raistlin said, sneering the word and sounding both amused and disgusted. "Have the arcane arts really sunk so low on your plane, or are you in reality a novice?"

"I am among the greatest of my era!" Roger replied defiantly, then realized he had played right into his opponent's mental trap. Well, he would teach this upstart to fear the Gift! If he could just get the chance to construct a Gate, even a shoddy one…his opponent was already bleeding…

Roger's chance came. Raistlin's throat constricted and he began to cough viciously. Although he felt Roger scramble out of his reach, he could do nothing to stop him. He couldn't even breathe!

His vision, cursed to teach him a lesson yet a strange asset in this fight, as it showed him the aura of the Conte Duke's magic, swam as tears sprung up in his hourglass eyes from coughing so hard. His tea! He needed his tea, but his canteen was dry…

Yet he still had the dry herbs. Fumbling clumsily for the pouch, Raistlin grabbed a handful of the brew's ingredients, braced himself, and stuffed them into his mouth. He bit down hard.

It was even worse than he had imagined. The herbs in their natural state tasted even more bitter, more foul and disgusting. Forcing himself to chew, he stumbled backwards as his windpipe slowly cleared and wondered why he wasn't being attacked.

As his vision flared orange, he had his answer. He froze in his tracks, not by his own free will but because orange fire bound him in place, surrounded him, sought to sap him of the power in his veins, the gift of the three moons within him. He had stumbled into a very roughly drawn symbol in the sand, so slipshoddily constructed it was a miracle the thing even worked. Raistlin cursed, but he did not curse Roger's ability or ingenuity. He cursed his own idiocy and weakness.

Raistlin was not the only one surprised the Gate worked. Roger had had to work quickly and roughly, sketching frantically the loops and whorls he otherwise would have mapped out carefully, almost lovingly. He had come up with this variation of the Gate of Idramm himself. How fitting, therefore, that he use it to drain the man who had insulted his talents. Smiling grimly, half-grimacing because of the pain in his sword-arm, Roger waited to receive the power he felt emanating from his strange opponent.

But no magic came. Raistlin fought the enchantment with all his might, fought for the use of the skills to which he had dedicated his entire being. If he let himself be drained of the magic—if his arrogance wiped away forever that for which he had sacrificed everything—his entire existence in the world would have been meaningless. The magic was parent, lover, child, he had said once; so now he clung to it as a father holds close his son, a man reaches for his wife, a child runs to his mother in a blind panic. Supporting his entire weight on the Staff of Magius, his legs gave out and he fell. The force of his fall sent the Staff's tip shooting out in the opposite direction, dragging across the ground and marring the Gate.

Roger saw his enemy fall, but did not gloat or even rush in to finish the job. Instead he stared, filled with horror and wonder and awe. "Who _are_ you?" he breathed, knowing he had met at least his equal at last.

Raistlin rolled over, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his expression dazed but his eyes still very focused. "Even if you knew…you still wouldn't be able to understand," he responded in a choking whisper, then passed out cold, physically exhausted but still master of his magic.

Roger remained standing and staring. "Whoever you are," he remarked to the air grudgingly, "there's no denying you've got style."

His gaze lingered on the mage's bloody mouth. "If you can call it that."

"You do realize that this will likely count as an act of evil and you'll have to reset your day counter again, do you not?" Maedhros swung his sword.

Anakin blocked it. "I don't care. I've had too much trouble with your blasted system already. It's no one's business but my own how often I do things I shouldn't." He lunged.

The elf sidestepped nimbly. "Nice attempt, but a bit obvious. Still, I must admit you're a far cry better swordsman than even some of my own brothers—well, it's true, Father, Amras never did get the knack of dueling!"

The stupid elf had been doing that a lot lately—breaking off his banter to snap at some unseen entity he called "Father." But it never broke his stride. He was subtle, he was swift, and he was obviously used to battling opponents that lacked the physical capabilities of his kind. Well, Anakin had a few advantages on his side as well. Dropping back, he took a deep breath and called on the Force.

Sand whirled up in a sudden tornado, blinding Maedhros. He stumbled back into the surf but did not fall. Anakin called a wave, yanking the ocean along the currents of the Force, and sent it crashing down over his blinded foe. Maedhros was knocked to his knees; again his sword tumbled from his hand. Anakin called it to himself, strode up to where his opponent kneeled, vulnerable and sodden, and crossed the blades over his neck.

This was the position he'd assumed to commit his first cold-blooded murder. He could almost see Dooku's eyes, wide and staring as realization hit; he could hear Palpatine—Sidious—telling him what must be done…

Yet Dooku's fear was not in Maedhros's eyes, Sidious's words of seduction were not on his lips. "Anakin—I hope I may call you Anakin—I won't tell you you're not a killer. I know you are. You've killed better and worse people than me before, I'm sure of it, and I know if you chose you could send my spirit speeding back to Mandos a failure. So I shan't try to tell you you can't kill me, or won't. I just want you to think. What does killing me accomplish? It will not bring the peace you seek. It will not buy you freedom, or even prove a point. You made a choice, long ago, then regretted it and saved everything. You died saving your own soul. Kill me here, and you will have died in vain, as I myself died. Do you want that?"

_He does believe he died in vain_, Anakin realized, staring into grey eyes that burned and stormed at the same time. _That's why he's doing all this, so his afterlife can redeem what his life and death could not._

_So what? It's no concern of mine. He's my opponent, and I outsmarted him. I beat him. I knew I would; I've been peerless too long to have forseen anything else._

_But…do I want to have that look in my eyes?_

_It's a trick! Any minute now, he's going to make a grab for his weapon, and _I'll_ be the headless fool, lying dead for the second time._

Anakin tried to harden his heart and resolve, yet his muscles seemed frozen in time and would not move. The monster he'd fought his whole life—fear—was alive again and chewing on him, resurrected at the thought of having that wretched look of despair on his own face, in his own eyes, even in eyes hidden behind a black helmet. Suddenly he knew that he, who had made a life out of achieving the impossible, simply could not do what he planned on doing. He could not kill this elf. It would be like killing his soul, and now that he was dead, his soul was all he had left.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the hand clutching his own lightsaber and fastened the deactivated weapon to his belt. Then, pointing at the unmoving Maedhros, he again called upon the Force and lifted the elf off the ground. An involuntary cry escaped his captive's lips, then Maedhros regained his composure.

"Feanor," Anakin said shakily. "He snuck into your party. Where is he?"

"Right here," was the reply, cold and hard. "When you captured my gullible fool of a son, you also apprehended me. I suppose you are just the next in a long line of weak-minded followers the Valar have arrayed against me? I must say, your first impression left quite a different mark. I almost respected you then." Maedhros's eyebrows furrowed. "But no, you are like all the rest, even down to my own sons. Weak."

Fury filled Anakin and, with a snarl, he jerked his hand, flipping Maedhros upside down, then clenched a fist. The elf's cheeks, already flushed by the rush of blood to his head, reddened still more as invisible fingers choked him.

"You'll pay for that, you lying, sneering—"

A humongous wave broke over Anakin, shattering his concentration. Maedhros dropped to the ground in a heap but was soon on his feet—and at Anakin's throat, steel-tipped fingers glistening as drops of sweat and salt water from Anakin's cheeks dripped down onto them.

"My son wouldn't kill you," hissed Maedhros—or something that had taken over Maedhros—"but I will. I, unlike others I could mention, have the sense to remove obstacles in my way so they don't come back to haunt me later. Move a muscle, and all the powers in the world won't be able to save you. Now. My son will never let me hear the end of it if I don't give you one more chance. So let's talk."

_I've got a bad feeling about this,_ thought Anakin. To move would mean death—probably Maedhros's death; Anakin still had one activated lightsaber, one deactivated lightsaber, and the Force at his disposal, plus he could change back into Darth Vader, whose armor would render the claws useless. But Anakin was sick of death, sick of contemplating it, and sick of dealing it out. So he did the only thing he could think of.

He said, "All right."

Ken sat down on a rock and put his head in his hands. He'd been helpless in a life-or-death situation. Again. He should have reacted faster, should have conjured a weapon despite his fear, anything to keep Raistlin from fighting two-on-one when the mage wasn't even at full strength. Ken didn't know why, but he found himself liking Raistlin despite the mage's obvious arrogance and provocative nature. There was a certainty Raistlin wore like a cloak over his black robes, a confidence and self-assurance Ken wished he himself possessed. Plus Raistlin was smarter than Ken, and for all of the boy's life he had admired intelligence perhaps even above character.

Now he owed Raistlin his life, and perhaps Raistlin now owed Ken's uselessness his death. Strapping the goggles over his eyes, Ken clambered up onto the rock on which he'd been sitting, stretched his arm out, and called into being the one weapon he could handle like an extension of his body. When he was done, a long whip lay coiled in his hand. If they came looking for him, he'd give them a few lashes to remember him by, for the world to see so that his death, alone on an alien world without partner, friends, or parents nearby, would still be commemorated somehow. Maybe someday Wormmon would be sent to this beach, would find his body lying there…what would he think if he saw the goggles, saw the whip? But Ken could not do without those, not when _they_ came for him, fresh from their victory over poor Raistlin. As his light had saved him before, so now he called on his darkness. It didn't matter. He was going to die anyway.

It was strange. Ken had long harbored a secret belief that for his crimes he deserved no less than death. He had stayed living for the sakes of those who loved him only, yet now as a faint many-winged silhouette appeared on the horizon, Ken realized he honestly wanted to live. He wanted to see his parents, to hold Wormmon, to come to terms with the strange feeling in his chest when he looked at Yolei. He wanted to find Maedhros's brother, wanted to give the elf a chance for a fraternal reunion he himself could never have.

The goggles sharpened his vision, focused the figure approaching. Ken counted the wings: it had to be Lucemon. That was quick. He must have left the stranger to fight Raistlin alone. Ken allowed himself a little smile. Those odds were more in the mage's favor.

Nonetheless, this did not help his own position; standing on the rock Ken stuck out like a rose in a daisy patch. Jumping down and crouching low, his first thought was to hide among the rocks and hope Lucemon didn't see him, fighting only if necessary. As he glanced around, however, he saw a better hiding place and scrambled into a small cave half-hidden by the rocks.

It was steep, sloping sharply downward, and cramped, but not inhabitable; plus the further down Ken went the wider the cave became. Soon he could stand upright, and the cave floor flattened out, the opening a mere pinprick of light far above Ken's head.

Hoping Lucemon's usual reluctance to do anything that wasn't the angel's own idea meant his search pattern would be cursory only, Ken held his breath as he heard his pursuer's voice.

"…but the guy vanished, so there's no guarantee, for all Reject knows that explosion disintegrated him and Reject's just getting me out of the way so he can get the treasure, but who needs treasure when you can have utopia…"

_Treasure? The jewel! That's why Lucemon had turned against us! That man wanted the…Silmaril? Was that the term? He was going to be disappointed; we've found nothing that could lead us to Maglor. Not a single thing._

Lucemon's voice grew louder: he was close. To give himself room in which to wield his whip, Ken stepped backwards a couple of paces, eyes fixed on the speck of light that was the opening. His heel connected with something, and to his surprise that something fell over with a discordant, musical crash.

"Watch where you step!" came a voice, annoyed, from the darkness behind Ken as Lucemon's winged form filled the opening. "You just knocked over my harp!"

A/N: Gee, wonder who that could be?...

The angsty, melodramatic, cheesy writing style is back! Hooray!

Due to a rumor circulating that review replies are no longer allowed, I strongly urge anyone who reviewed my last chapter to visit my Xanga (just click "homepage" on my profile page) and read the entry marked Sept. 6, 2005. You'll find a little something there for you!

One more chapter, then this story is done…and Book Two of the Phase Three Trilogy can begin…


	5. Sorry, No Fancy Name

Taa-daaaah! The last chapter of of the sequel to the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group! Do I rock or WHAT! (okay, you can all stop saying "or what" now. You're doing absolutely nothing for my self-esteem, I'll have you know.)

I have received several comments about how there are no breaks between chapters in my sections, and no one is more upset about this than me, as I included little breaky things in my Word documents. So I will be continuing to try new section breaks until something works. Hopefully it'll work…

Oh, and I have a rather important correction to make from chapter 3. When Feanor is giving his little rant'n'rave about his not being a magical demon that enchanted the Noldor, he says that he "named Melkor Morgoth, and on his very deathbed, I cursed him thrice." That "his" is supposed to be a "my." Feanor did the dying, not Morgoth.

Oh, and I made one more change. After thinking about it, I determined the Silmarillion characters likely wouldn't call each other by the Sindarized versions of their names; instead, Feanor would use their Quenya father-names and Maedhros would likely use the mother-names (being quite a bit like his mom…or at least more than most of his brothers). What this means for you readers is: When Feanor says "Nelyafinwe" and "Kanafinwe", he means Maedhros and Maglor, respectively. Maglor is referring to Maedhros when he says "Maitimo," and Maedhros to Maglor when he says "Makalaure." (Confused yet? )

Oh, and I don't own Raistlin, Roger, Ken, Maedhros, Feanor, Namo, Lucemon, Darth Vader, Maglor or anybody else…except the demonism guy from chapter 3. Great.

Oh, and there's a story on this thing, too, not just author's notes. Here it is.

All I Want, Chapter Five: All The Other Chapters Had Nice Long Descriptive Names, But Now My Well Of Creativity Has Run Dry, So This One's Just Called "The Last Chapter"

Of all the stunts he'd pulled, all the tricks he'd played, all the stupid plans he'd followed just because he knew his comrades would need someone with a brain along to get them out alive, this one, Raistlin decided, was by far the most embarrassing.

So he thanked the gods nobody was around to see it.

His hands were bound by a cord of magical fire; his staff and spellbooks lay on the ground, along with Maedhros's Fell Deeds handbook. Roger sat opposite him, gloating over what he perceived as a victory but what Raistlin merely considered a respite in the duel. He would play prisoner, recover his strength, and attack his foe anew.

In the meantime, however, the whole affair was excruciatingly humiliating.

Roger was searching through Raistlin's possessions, having stripped his "captive" of the many pouches, packs, and scroll cases hanging from his slender person. Opening one pouch, the duke wrinkled his nose in disgust and tossed it aside. "Bat guano. How unsanitary."

"Yet used in a spell that has been described as 'wonderful' and 'marvelous,'" Raistlin replied, adding under his breath, "far too many times." In his mind's eye, he saw the crazed old gentleman who'd escorted him to his first encounter with the Support Group, then sighed. The old man wouldn't be casting any more fireballs. Raistlin was not the only one who had made sacrifices.

Roger ignored him. "What's this…rose petals? To help curb the stench of the guano, of course."

_No, to make you drop snoring where you stand, you pompous strutting fool, _ Raistilin thought venomously, clenching his teeth to keep from muttering the incantation.No, he had to bide his time…there was still a chance that Roger might let something slip, some vital key to his inner workings that, if Raistlin turned it, would reveal the duke's intentions.

Coming to a pouch he vividly remembered Raistlin digging into during the duel, Roger pulled out some of the herbs, rolled them between his fingers. "What's this for?" he asked, regarding the herbs with interest.

"That," Raistlin replied, "is a strength enhancer. During battle, one chews it to make the enemy's intentions clearer." Roger considered this explanation dubiously, then sampled the contents of the pouch. His face contorted, his cheeks paled, and he spat the mixture back into the pouch. "How'd you trick me?" he gasped, tongue unable to forget the bitter taste.

Allowing himself a small smile, Raistlin savored his little victory but was irritated at the way Roger had spit the used herbs back in with the fresh ones. Now he was out of tea. "I was most impressed with your trapping spell," he said, changing the subject, and he meant it.

It was Roger's turn to relax and gloat a little. "I did design that variation myself. It proved very useful. With it, and other spells, I nearly conquered a kingdom." He smiled, remembering. "I made the earth move, made supposed allies turn on those they had once called friend. I brewed a sickness no man ever conquered."

"Meaning, of course, a woman overcame it," Raistlin interrupted, nonplussed by Roger's nostalgia. "You wreaked such havoc on the land and among the people…for what goal? To what end? Surely you do not pride yourself on random acts of wanton destruction."

The bearded man shrugged. "Revenge. Contempt. Bitterness. Take your pick." He flung his arms wide in a flamboyant yet calculated gesture. "Who knows? The gods had decided they were against me. Perhaps I planned to overthrow them in turn."

"Apotheosis is overrated," Raistlin snapped irritably. Roger raised a seemingly casual eyebrow, but Raistlin said no more, repressing the desire to hurl a few more barbed insults in the duke's general direction. His chance was coming…coming…

Roger yawned, blinked: the morning's fight had tired him.

….came. Bonds dissolving with a word, Raistlin threw himself at the Conte Duke, pulling him to the ground with hands that burned like fire. Roger cried aloud in agony as those golden hands seared his flesh, bit into his arms, rendered him unable to fight back in pain. He did not know the black-robed mage was actually being merciful; had Raistlin wished it, the wounds he inflicted could have bled forever. As it was, Roger was merely burned.

As Roger writhed on the ground, Raistlin grabbed his rose petals and scattered them over his opponent's face. "_Ast tasarak sinuralan kyrnawi,_" he whispered, and Roger's convulsions stopped, his eyes closed, his breathing slowed. He was asleep.

Having thus subdued his supposed captor, Raistlin reclaimed his pilfered possessions, then placed his hand on the man's forehead and called to mind a spell he'd found in his new spellbook. Murmuring softly in the language of magic, his tongue caressing each syllable of the spell and the magic flooded through him in waves of precious power, his hand glowed a faint red, then dimmed.

Roger's body glowed, then dimmed. Coughing, Raistlin smiled through the fit. The spell was cast. Staff in hand, he made ready to leave.

"You will follow me," he told the sleeping body on the ground. Roger stood, still slumbering soundly, bound by Raistlin's magic. Even when he woke, Raistlin would be able to command his movements. Any order the golden-eyed mage gave, Roger would be unable to disobey until the spell wore off.

_I wish I'd discovered this sooner,_ Raistlin thought to himself as he went in search of Maedhros and Ken. _I could have made Caramon shut up whenever I wanted…_

**o0o**

"Hello? Who's down there?" Lucemon's voice echoed jarringly off the walls of the cave. "I know you're down there, Ichijooji!"

_Ichij**ou**ji,_ Ken thought fiercely; but he remained quiet, staring up not at the angel but at the other inhabitant of what he thought was a deserted hiding place.

"I know not of whom you speak!" the man called back up, then looked down at Ken. "Is he looking for you?" he asked softly.

"Yes, but I don't want to be found. I think he'll try to kill me, sir," Ken whispered back. Despite himself, he smiled. "You're Maglor, aren't you?"

The man—the elf; Ken caught a glimpse of a pointed ear—blinked, surprised. "You have heard of me?"

"Your brother Maedhros was on this very beach, searching for you, when he was assaulted by a comrade of the person up there now," Ken replied. "A friend and I were helping Maedhros look."

"Boy, you're stupid, human!" Lucemon called. "I can hear you down there!" A pause. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to come _out_ and fight me?"

"My brother…is alive?" Maglor asked, wonder and joy flooding his face. "He's looking for me?"

"Who's that with you? Speak up, cuz I _really_ don't want to have to climb down there!"

"Then don't," came another voice from above. Maglor looked at Ken, who shook his head; he'd never heard the voice before. _Great,_ the boy thought. _How many more comrades does Lucemon have?_

A third voice filtered down through the murk, one both Ken and Maglor started upon hearing. "Ken, you can come up now…who's that with you?"

"Maitimo!" Maglor cried and, brushing, past Ken, scrambled up the narrow path to the cave opening. Ken, blinking bemusedly, followed.

He emerged into the sunlight and was greeted by the sight of Maglor and Maedhros embracing tightly, while a black-robed, helmeted figure held what looked like a laser sword centimeters from Lucemon's neck. The angel, terrified of making the slightest move and too close to his enemy to attack, stood perfectly still, barely even breathing.

At length the two brothers separated and stared at each other, marveling. "How…" Maedhros began. "I don't believe it! How did you survive? Did the Silmaril not pain your hand?"

Maglor held both hands up, palms forward; both were scarred as if burned. "With torment unbearable. Finally, cursing my fate, I cast it into the Sea, where no Curse or Oath can reach it. It is free, though I am not; some nights I still feel the pain, and I sing my laments to the waves. But you! Not only do you seem healthy, but you are whole! However did _you_ survive?"

"I didn't," said Maedhros absently, his face strangely abstracted as if grappling with some unbearable truth. "You cast…away the Silmaril? Of your own free will?"

"Yes." Maglor's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, you didn't survive?"

"I mean I'm DEAD!" the red-haired elf snapped in a tone entirely different from his normal voice. "That, I believe, is the definition of 'not surviving.' How could you betray me so? No physical pain could possibly outburn the searing indignations we suffered when the Silmarils were stolen. And you…you discarded it like a mere _trinket,_ like a bauble easily forgotten!" His voice grew cold and he turned away. "You are no son of mine."

"Of course not," said Lucemon, daring to speak. "Aren't you brothers? And one more thing: if the jewel doohickey is gone, then why are we here anyway? Reject lied to us!" This last sentence was directed at his captor.

Vader deactivated his lightsaber; Lucemon's anger was no longer directed at anyone present. "You're right. He lies. Everybody lies." His own rage built, less at Roger specifically than the world in general. Jewels meant nothing to him, but the lie…he was sick and tired of being lied to. He'd spent almost half of his life dedicated body and soul to a lie.

"I am no son of yours?" Maglor's face was confused and hurt. "Maitimo, you sound…you sound like our father."

"I. Am. Your. Father." Maedhros turned around, a fell light in his ice-grey eyes. "I defied the Valar and death itself to return, only I find that you in your foolishness have made all my efforts for naught. Yes, Kanafinwe, it is I, Curufinwe your father and leader, to whom you owe everything yet pay only treachery in return! Nelyafinwe, like a good, loyal son, allowed me to accompany him on this quest even after the so-called Lord of Mandos forbid it. And where do I find you, my sole surviving child? Wasting away like a hermit, singing your stupid poetry to the depths that claimed my treasure. You had no right to throw it away. It was mine. MINE!"

Ken sat down heavily on a rock, head back in his hands again. Suddenly everything made sense to him—the quest, Maedhros's strange behavior at the inn, Lucemon and the others' tracking them. It was unbelievable—yet feasible, given the events. Feanor was inside Maedhros.

"Father?" Maglor's voice quivered.

Maedhros blinked, shook his head; the feyness faded from his eyes. "I have him under control now, Makalaure. Forgive him; he knows not what he says. His anguish is great. Imagine waking one day without a voice, knowing you would never sing again. That is the pain he suffers, the pain of passion irretrievable. He has missed you, Makalaure my brother. And so have I."

"Maitimo…"

"That, in part, is why I am here. The shadows of past deeds haunt your heart still; I see it in your eyes. But I have founded a group, my brother, who will support you in your quest for redemption. This is my new quest. My new oath. Will you come with me?" He held out his right hand, a hand missing for hundreds of years.

Maglor stood, slightly overwhelmed, for a long moment; then he shook his head. "I must decline. You have found your penance. I have found mine. To dwell ever alone, immortal, is my fate. My punishment. I cannot return even to seek help and peace; no words can erase what has been done, so let me drown my grief in my own lonely tears. Thank you, but…it is beyond me to accept."

"You won't come?" Maedhros's face looked strangely, boyishly injured. Behind him, two silent figures approached, walking along the beach. Ken ran to greet one.

"Raistlin! We found him. We found Maglor."

"So I see." The mage coughed.

"Maglor won't come, though. Maedhros's Phase Three failed…and Feanor has been inside Maedhros's head this whole time!"

Raistlin smiled. Ken stared.

"You…you knew?"

"Merely read the signs. Hurry, Roger. Your companions are waiting."

Ken recognized the strange bearded man Raistlin had been fighting, stalking robotically along the beach wearing a scowl blacker than night. The boy paled; something seemed unnatural. "Raistlin…what did you do to him?"

"Nothing permanent. The spell will not last much longer, so we must make these last minutes count. I have not the strength currently to cast it again." He shot a golden glare at Roger. "Though I do have others at my disposal." The Duke glowered but made no reply.

Maedhros was still trying to convince Maglor; rummaging through his hard-won pack, his face darkened. "Where's my handbook?" he asked, exasperated. "Don't laugh, Father! This isn't humorous. Likely it's been incinerated along with that inn…"

"Oh, was _that_ the smoke?" Lucemon asked. "I hadn't pinned you as the random-violence type. Now Goldie over there, he…" The angel broke off abruptly, stuck out his tongue, and looked at it. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out.

Ken looked up at Raistlin; the mage arched an eyebrow and handed the Fell Deeds handbook back to Maedhros. "If you care so much about that text, take better care of it."

"You took it? From me? When you knew how much it meant to me…stop acting so self-righteous, Father, this is _not_ the same as what Morgoth did to you. Anyway, I have mine back now…"

"Bad move," said Ken without thinking, and he was right. Maedhros convulsed and fell to the ground, grappling for control of his body with its enraged occupant. Ken reached out a hand to help…

…and stopped short, feeling a pricking on his own neck. Running his hand across it, he frowned. What had that been? There'd been a vague uneasiness, a sense of something dark impending…

The feeling came again, stronger and more urgent this time. Looking at Raistlin, Ken decided the mage had nothing to do with it. This was from an outside source.

Then he could not think, as what felt like a fireball exploded in the back of his neck, where the Dark Spore still lodged in his spinal cord, its tendrils dormant yet present, reminders of a day when his mind was not wholly his own. Screaming, Ken clutched Raistlin for support; the mage staggered and caught hold of Maedhros, who still lay on the ground, grabbing at anyone and anything he could find as his father raged within…his right hand landed on the handbook…

A brilliant light flashed on the beach. As it cleared, Maglor looked around. Maitimo and his companions were gone.

"Maitimo? Father?" he asked softly.Then, head bowed, he sighed. Maitimo had always been a crusader, a warrior, tenacious and fierce. If he had to leave, so suddenly, then it must be for the quest he had found. He had found companions, too, even if they didn't seem quite well. Maglor had found nothing. Nothing but loneliness.

But as he had said himself, that was the fate he had forged.

"Good luck, my brother," he whispered, then descended back into the darkness of his cave. No one watched him go. No one heard the laments he composed, wailing above the waves in a voice like the Sea itself.

Yet several beings watched the Recovering Evil Madmen Support Group arrive at their new destination, landing in a heap on the floor. The owner of the establishment in which they landed noticed them and recognized one. Several passers-by noticed and hastily exited.

And a great evil noticed and reveled. For soon revenge would be his.

A/N: Ooh, scary! Yeah, do I stink at conclusions or what?

Contest time: whoever can guess who noticed them gets to date one of the guys. (I'll pick the name out of a hat.) (Obviously if you're a guy you'll get a different prize…) Another mini-contest: This story in turn has a sequel (duh), yet I'm torn between three songs for the titular number. Please vote between: "One" by Simple Plan and "Dark Chest of Wonders" and "Wish I Had an Angel," both by Nightwish.

I know I said they'd be going to Krynn, but that storyline got dropped due to lack of…um…plot. So the status of all things REMSG is: there's a sequel to this coming, and then after/during that I'm also going to be doing a short-story collection where I pretty much make fun of everybody instead of having an actual plot. THAT's where the Krynn stuff is going. Dalamar Nightson: I owe you a Dally story! I swear you will get it!

Hey, while I'm at it, review replies!

**GuessWho: **Hooray, someone else was annoyed at me! Thank you for prompting me to sit my lazy butt down in a chair and TYPE! You get Fetchie Kudos Points! (don't ask; thing I do with the club I run) No, I've never read Oliver Twist, but I've seen the musical if that counts (which it probably doesn't.) Do I make a reference without realizing it? You've piqued my curiosity.

**Sangfroid:** I'm glad you're back! I like banter too, even though it's totally unrealistic…I saw this dueling show where the actors mocked all the banter in "Star Wars"…but never mind. Yeah, not as much Maglor in here as you'd probably like, but I hope what's in is acceptable. I'm going to write at least one short story featuring him for the anthology thingy. Thanks as always for your compliments.

**Dalamar Nightson:** Continuation of my note to you above…Hope the conclusion of the Roger&Raist duel was satisfactory. Personally I can't see Raistlin hurling himself bodily at someone, but it's funny to think about…I have a lot of tackling in my stories, don't I? And thanks for the heads-up about review replies.

**Shalafi:** Sorry Anakin wasn't a hit. I have trouble writing him…pages and pages of notes (yes, I do take notes while watching "Star Wars") with very little results. But he's not too main a character…was there anything specific you didn't like? Cuz I'll try to fix it…

**Crysania Lomiel Moredhel:** Wow, "Raistlin and the Rose" by Lake of Tears just started playing on my Media Player…that was scarily fitting…anyway, I love your name, I'm glad you liked the story, I just hope I can keep Raistlin in character…and Feanor is one of my favorites too. I wish Tolkien'd written more of the "Silmarillion" in novel form so we'd get more of Feanor's dialogue…I love his big long speeches (reading them and writing them too).

**Abbie:** Hi! I'm going to see you soon! I'll have seen you by the time you read this! Don't be afraid to wax Bryson on me; she is the master, the master of constructive criticism…

**Conta Mirian:** Thanks so much! I spent a lot of time fleshing out the Noldor, as there's a lot in Silm that reveals their personalities but it's never really stressed…as for Ken, well, whatcha gonna do when you're writing post-02? He's not as psycho with guilt, but he still has all those lovely little endearing character flaws…but I'm babbling again.

**Mirowood:** Hey man, my play's next week. When's yours? Maglor is a good hand with a sword but, as you can see, it doesn't really matter…the orange thing is actually from the source material...don't sweat it about not finding time to write. I know what that's like.

**sqrt(-1): **Did my scene divider work? And you're right, Maedhros could probably just think what he wants Feanor to hear…but it's more amusing for him to act schizo. Thanks for reading my Xanga, too…I need to update that thing…

That's it for now. Hope it was worth the wait. Please return for the next story, the title of which will be determined by YOU! Love to all my reviewers; you have doubled in number and that makes me very happy and grateful. See you (write you? Read you?) soon…


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